This morning, my wife Alison gave our middle child, Sebastian (15), a ride to school. Unlike most mornings, Sebastian was especially talkative. He had a lot on his mind-- dismay that he doesn't find science interesting any more. He's been debating whether to go to "The Governors' School" this summer-- it's an advanced educational program here in Virginia for gifted rising high school juniors & seniors. Sebastian's been invited into these kind of programs before. Sometimes, he's liked them a lot-- and sometimes they've induced anxiety in him.

Sebastian’s also worried about his older brother, Stephen (17), for all the things Stephen's been going through. I’ve written sparingly about Stephen in the past (most notable, here and here). Sparingly, because, frankly, it’s painful. Stephen’s on the autistic spectrum. But he also has an intellectual disability and mental health issues. So much of my day is spent worrying about him. And trying to calm him down. And praying for him. And trying to find glimmers of accomplishment in what he does because, let’s face it, all parents yearn to be proud of their children.

Although Sebastian and Stephen are in different classes, they share the same gym period-- Stephen's in the Advanced PE and Sebastian's in the normal PE class. But during gym period, Sebastian sees Stephen walk around the gym by himself. Most of the kids in the Advanced PE class are athletes-- football players, etc. We've had Stephen do Advanced PE because of the greater emphasis on weight training. Even though Stephen's not a weight lifter, they've usually let him do the elliptical machines during Advanced PE. But now, lately at least, he's just been walking laps around the gym by himself. Which is disheartening, at least from Sebastian’s perspective, who sees Stephen all by himself when he (Sebastian) is usually hanging out with his friends.

The other day, during dinner, Stephen really bared his soul for the first time in a long time. A few weeks ago, Stephen hit his only true friend. They had gotten into an argument about something. The friend was here at our house and, for some reason, Stephen was bothering Sebastian about something. Stephen's friend told Stephen to quite bothering Sebastian. Seeing his friend take Sebastian's side in the argument triggered something in Stephen. Jealousy. He started yelling and, after a few moments, Stephen hit his friend in the back.

Since then, the boy hasn't wanted to be Stephen's friend anymore. Stephen's tried to apologize, but the friend doesn't want to hear anything about it.

So, over dinner the other night, it dawned on Stephen that he's really lost his best friend. He doesn't have other friends his age. My impression is that most kids at school don’t talk to him. At school, he’s fairly isolated from many of his peers. Some of that, unfortunately, is Stephen's own fault-- he's had behavioral issues. Plus, he's said some mean things to other people who've been his friends in the past. Or, in some cases, his over-active attempts to foster friendships have not gone over well-- he's been accused of pestering kids. He can't understand any of this. Stephen's intellectually disabled, saddled with ADHD, Autism, memory retention issues, and an IQ in the 50s. Plus his mental health issues.

During dinner, Stephen was mumbling about this to himself. And telling us about it. He kept saying he shouldn't have hit his friend. At seventeen, the realization that actions have consequences has finally hit him. Saying all this, he wasn't mad or angry... but you could tell he was distraught. I offered to take Stephen out for a walk—lately, now that the temperatures have turned colder, we’ve been doing a lot of mall walking—and Stephen jumped readily at the chance. During our walk, Stephen seemed happy. He didn’t want to talk anymore about what had happened with him and his friend, but we talked. Silly stuff. Kid stuff. So much of what amuses Stephen amounts to silly jokes, stuff that most kids his age would probably roll their eyes at. But Stephen eats it up. More than anything though, I got the feeling that Stephen just liked me being there with him, listening.

But anyways, this morning, Sebastian gave Stephen a hug. Told him that he wished Stephen had a good day today. And then Stephen bounded onto the bus, and Sebastian bounded into Alison’s car and told her about all he’d been going through lately.

Last Friday night found me and my family standing with a couple thousand people along Blacksburg’s Main Street, awaiting the Christmas Parade. The temperature was in the thirties. My daughter, Ellie, would be in one of the floats, but I was not adequately bundled for the cold. Before the parade, to keep warm, we wandered in and out of the shops along the parade route. We had already devoured a fair-sized bag of caramel popcorn, but my quest for a mug of hot chocolate went unfulfilled.

In one of the shops, a Christmas-themed glass cookie platter caught my wife’s eye. It was pretty, and superfluous. But, as I say, it caught Alison’s eye, and it’s price ($29) didn’t seem outrageously expensive. People in the shop were buying more expensive things—silver knickknacks and glass ornaments that would likely be packed up into boxes and stuffed into attics all around town in another month. Twenty-nine dollars is twenty-nine dollars. Not an insignificant amount, but also not large enough to land me in debtors’ prison. But still, a seasonal platter has limitations. For a moment, I thought, Bah! Humbug! Why spend twenty-nine dollars for something we’re only going to use a few times each year?

Years ago, I saw an interview with Tip O’Neill, who was the Democratic Speaker of the House of Representatives during the Reagan years. He was asked why so many blue-collar Democrats supported the Reagan tax cuts, which clearly were intended to benefit the wealthier classes. Were these blue-collar Democrats bamboozled?

No, O’Neill said. The blue-collar Democrats were smart enough to know that Reagan’s tax cuts would not help them. But, America being America, each of these blue-collar Democrats wanted to believe that they would one day be wealthy enough to personally take advantage of Reagan’s tax cuts. It was a powerful lesson. People could willingly vote against their present interests if you bedazzled them with aspirational longings and long-term greed.

Okay. So I’m not wealthy enough for a weekly splurge on twenty-nine dollar cookie platters. But, plonking down my credit card at that cashier’s register, I wanted to believe that I could be like every other American and enjoy a small luxury once every Crimble. I wanted to believe that more small luxuries lay in my future. Signing the sales receipt, I wasn’t just buying a superfluous cookie platter—I was buying the illusion of financial well-being. Consumerism is such an integral part of American culture. Those with limited incomes and unable to take part in frivolous purchases can feel as if they’re excluded and isolated from our natural cultural, their natural identity. But it felt good, knowing that at least for a moment, I was an American, someone capable of buying a Made-In-China platter decorated with holy leaves and mistletoe.

Stepping out of the shop, I talked to the people standing around us, waiting for the parade to begin. A woman commiserated with us over the lack of hot chocolate vendors.

“My son owns a beverage cart,” the woman said. She was wearing a red and green Christmas stocking cap, the kind that should’ve had a brass sleigh bell jingling at its end. “My son could have made a million dollars today if he was out here, selling hot chocolate.”

Well, maybe not a million dollars. Blacksburg is a small town. Perhaps a few thousand people lined the streets, waiting for the parade. But we all had the appetite for small luxuries. A cup of hot chocolate, a bag of caramel popcorn, a painted glass cookie platter, and whatever else we could afford.

Addendum: Winter might be the season when my thoughts swing most to food and cooking. Last winter, I wrote a couple of food-related essays for Entropy (here and here). By happenstance, within the last week I’ve read two foodie books: James Lasdun’s THE FALL GUY and Stephanie Danler’s SWEETBITTER. Both are superb. Danler’s protagonist in her coming-of-age novel is a back waiter in a swanky New York restaurant modeled after the Union Square Cafe. Lasdun’s protagonist in his psychological thriller is a down-and-out chef who becomes the personal chef for a wealthy friend at his summer home. Both authors explore the role of food in our society, but in remarkably different ways. Hopefully, I’ll write more about this over the coming days

​After Thanksgiving dinner last Thursday, we went to the movies. Midway through the film, my daughter, Ellie (11), jumped into my lap. Ellie’s getting older and is no longer so quick to jump into our laps, so I cherished the moment. We were watching Fantastical Beasts and Where to Find Them, the new JK Rowling-inspired film, and during the scary scenes, she’d lean back into me and cover her eyes. She’d squirm. I’d wrap my arms around her, give her a squeeze, and when the scary scenes were over, she’d bat my arms away and give a shake of her head, lashing me with her long hair.

Together, as a family, we’d eaten the better part of a 15-pound turkey and all the trimmings. For the second year running, the giblet gravy I made turned out very well—a matter of no small amount of pride for me. Later that night, we’d play board games together and scarf down the cinnamon-laced pumpkin pie my wife, Alison, had baked. But for me, the best part of the day was having Ellie in my lap.

I thought of this again last night when reading Lisa Jewell’s The Third Wife. The novel’s about a man who’s grieving the sudden death of his third wife while re-acquainting himself with the children he had with his first two wives. As one might imagine, the novel’s filled with regret. Repeatedly, he finds himself wondering how he’s become so estranged from his children. Though he’s tried to remain connected to them, he’s missed many of the milestones in their young lives.

In particular, I found myself thinking about this passage:

“He thought of Beau’s cheek under his hand half an hour ago and wondered when he’d last stroked Luke’s face. He was aware that there would always be the last time for these intimate nuances of his relationships with his children and that often that time would pass unnoticed. When, for example, had Cat sat on his lap for the last time? When had he last kissed Otis on the lips, picked Pearl up in his arms, called Luke one of his childhood nicknames, held Beau up on his shoulders? He had no idea. He thought of crying at the leavers’ ceremony of his oldest children, knowing that he would never again see them in their primary [school] uniforms, that they would never again be little. But there were no ceremonies for these other ‘lasts,’ no realization or acknowledgement that something precious was about to end.”

Last week, when the movie was over, Ellie hopped off my lap, zipped up her coat and walked up the aisle and out of the theater. Driving home, I asked her why she went onto my lap during the film.

Ellie shrugged. “The theater was cold.”

So it was just a matter of her personal comfort, of warmth, that drove her into my lap. I hope this wasn’t the last time she’d do so. And I hope it won’t take a cold movie theater or fantastical beasts for her to jump into my lap again.

Addendum: Last Sunday, our middle child, Sebastian (15) got baptized. I hadn’t been prepared for how good this would make me feel. He’s turned into a really fine young man—tall, intelligent, sensitive, caring, and good looking. It was a good feeling, coming to this realization.

If you care to watch his baptism, it starts at about the 9:20 mark of this video.

Addendum #2: A good friend from my MFA years, Jeremy Griffin, just published a great story in Green Briar Review. It's called "Oceanography," and you should really give it a read!